The Love We Keep

by Toni Blake

  “Great,” she said encouragingly. “You’re doing great.”

  At this, he reached out, squeezed her hand. Even with progress, she knew it remained hard. And some days she chose to talk with him about that, keep him uplifted. But sometimes a person just had to feel what they felt—so now, instead, she changed the subject as he began his hip rotations. “I tried to call Meg this morning. To apologize.”

  “And?”

  “No answer. So I left a heartfelt voice mail. Saying I was sorry I didn’t tell her sooner, sorry for how it came out, sorry for everything I did wrong.” She blew out a sigh. It had felt draining to have to be the bad guy. She didn’t feel like a bad guy—she felt like a person just trying to navigate the twists and turns of life. But she truly regretted the scene at the Knitting Nook, and she was sorry her connection with Zack hurt Meg. Thinking about it bummed her out, though, so she changed the topic once more. “Talk to Dahlia today?”

  He shook his head. “Not yesterday, either. She texted me this morning, though. Sent me a picture of another sunset.”

  Suzanne nodded and said, “She seems quieter lately. Or maybe just busier. And I guess I’ve forgiven her for leaving, but I miss hearing from her more.” She suspected Zack might feel the same way.

  “Yeah,” he said. Left it at that.

  “So who is this Giselle person? Do you know?” The question continued to linger.

  “Nope,” Zack answered as he continued his reps. “No idea.”

  It ate at Suzanne. “Meg said she’d never heard Dahlia mention her, and neither have I. Where on earth did she even come from?”

  Zack stopped exercising to glance up at her. “You don’t think she’s...Dahlia’s lover?”

  Suzanne tilted her head, a little caught off guard. “You think?”

  He just shrugged. “Dahlia keeps a lot to herself. And she never seemed to find a man who made her happy, so...”

  She saw his point. “Fair enough. Who knows?”

  “Or maybe I’m barking up the wrong tree,” he said. “Just weird how this woman popped up out of nowhere.”

  “Agreed. I mean, if she wanted a winter vacation, why didn’t she invite you? Or me?”

  He narrowed his gaze on her. “That’s actually a damn good point.”

  “You were even depressed,” Suzanne pointed out. “Seems like suggesting a getaway to you would have made perfect sense.”

  “You’re right.” But then he shook his head and sighed. “She used to be restless when I was a kid. Maybe she’s gotten restless again.”

  * * *

  WINTER LOOMED LONGER than usual for Meg. No Dahlia, no Suzanne—at least not in a good way. Before, there had been Zack—and now there was Seth, but he spent a lot more time outside in winter than Zack had. And there was Lila—and that helped—but her sister was busy building a relationship with Beck, at his house, which would be a much closer walk in summer than it was right now with the island buried under a thick layer of snow.

  It was too early for spring cleaning or prepping the inn for summer guests. She had a beef stew simmering, but time on her hands while it cooked. And so she sat trying to read, cat curled at her side, but unable to concentrate and instead staring at the icy crystalline designs on the windowpane beside her.

  A glance at the built-in bookcases in the nook drew her gaze to her grandmother’s treasured diary, and next to it a Bible that made her feel connected to Gran even all these years after her passing. “Oh, Gran,” she whispered, “how do I get past this?”

  Her grandma had endured the grand drama of a love triangle in this house as a girl—and then she’d picked the right guy and the drama had ended. Meg had thought her own drama would end, too, when she committed to Seth.

  But now she realized life was more complicated than that. She’d never known the events that had happened in her grandma’s teenage years until Seth had unearthed the diary last summer. Until then, she’d assumed her grandparents had enjoyed a simple, easy courtship—and if the diary hadn’t surfaced, she’d assume it still. And probably Gran’s drama hadn’t ended even then. Only the diary had ended. Only the love triangle had ended. There were countless stories Meg would never know. Surely everyone had stories, stories upon stories, that just faded away, lost to time. Life was likely never as simple as she’d envisioned her grandma’s being—and it made her feel naive to have lived for forty years before figuring that out. Life just kept going, and things kept happening, and you kept dealing with it, making choices, choosing paths.

  When her text notification sounded, she hesitated to reach for her phone. Suzanne had left a message for her this morning and she hoped this wouldn’t be her again. Nope—it was Dahlia. A little birdie told me you’re upset with Suzanne.

  Not mincing words today, her dear friend. So she wouldn’t, either. Anyone would be. Friends don’t hook up with friends’ exes.

  I would hesitate to call it hooking up. They’re in a difficult and unique situation, Dahlia replied.

  Meg answered: So then, you think this is a good thing, them together.

  I think they’re both in need of companionship. It surprised me, admittedly, but it actually makes perfect sense.

  Meg let out a little hmmf, even with only Miss Kitty there to hear it. Once upon a time, Dahlia wanted her with Zack and had gotten miffed when she met Seth. Dahlia was always Zack’s champion and defender, and everyone else came in second place. And yes, she was his only family, and everyone deserved at least one person who loved them unconditionally. But Meg couldn’t help feeling that Dahlia’s absolute support of Zack often came at her expense.

  When she didn’t answer right away, Dahlia texted again: I know it hurts. But you and Suz love each other. Whatever does or doesn’t happen here, don’t let it ruin your friendship. You needed her for a very long time before she came. I saw that, felt that.

  Meg drew in her breath, bit her lip. Dahlia had never made that observation before, yet it was true. Isolated on the island, Meg had hungered for a friend who looked at the world through a similar lens, someone to lean on and count on and laugh with and cry with. Dahlia had been Meg’s friend since her arrival here over fifteen years ago—but only when Suzanne arrived did Meg finally have that soul mate type of BFF she’d always wanted.

  Meg typed a reply. That’s why I’m so sad. I don’t know how I can ever feel the same about her again.

  * * *

  IT WAS A blessedly bright and sunny day when Suzanne bundled up, headed to Petal Pushers, and draped a plastic bag over her now-sprouted and budding bulbs to protect them from the cold as she carried them ceremoniously home. It was the last step—placing them in full light and warmth—and within the next week or so, beautifully blooming daffodils and hyacinths would brighten the cottage, reminding her spring was right around the corner.

  Of course, spring held mystery this year, and questions that could only be answered with time. But it did march on, with or without anyone’s permission, so her gardener’s heart would welcome it same as every year.

  She spared a glance toward the inn upon leaving, her heart still hurting over Meg. Part of her wondered if she should try again. But no. She’d apologized. Meg would either accept that...or not.

  She’d just turned the corner onto Mill Street when her phone trilled in her pocket, but with her hands full, she couldn’t look at it until she got home. Once the bulbs were inside, on the table, she found a text from Meg. Getting past this is going to take some time.

  Part of her wanted to crumble—because she just wanted everything to be okay, now. She wanted forgiveness. She ached for Meg’s blessing. But this was...at least a long-term maybe. So she showed Zack and tried to make the best of it, tried to move on.

  “Those are them, huh?” he asked as she unbagged the bulbs, their green shoots pointing cheerfully skyward.

  “Yep,” she said. “Soon we’ll have flowers.”


  “And soon we’ll have lunch, too—right?” he asked with a grin.

  It was past their usual lunchtime—she’d lingered at the shop, forgetting it affected someone else now. Forgetting, for just a few minutes, how much he depended on her. It was easy to forget because he’d become so capable, and he was still so much...himself: Zack Sheppard, ruggedly handsome, masculine to a fault. And unable to use his right leg.

  “What’s your pleasure? Cold sandwiches? Soup and grilled cheese?”

  “Soup and grilled cheese sound good,” he said, then glanced toward the window. “Is it warming up any out there?”

  She walked to the hearth to place a log atop low-burning flames. “No—the sun helps, but it’s still cold.”

  “No snow melting yet then?”

  She shook her head. No snow melting. Or ice, either, if that’s really what he was wondering. And surely he knew better. The straits rarely cleared before April. Maybe he was longing for a real prognosis. Or just eager for Dahlia’s return. She couldn’t blame him for either and tried to let go of any emotions the question triggered. She’d fallen in love with him, but that wasn’t his fault—or his problem. Whenever this wonderful thing between them ended, she’d cope. Somehow. “Grilled cheese and chicken noodle soup, coming right up.”

  “While you’re working on that,” he said, “I’ll make a bathroom run.” It was still a feat, no matter how good he’d gotten with crutches—because of dragging his foot behind him. It seemed akin to hauling around a useless anchor.

  “Okay,” she called, entering the kitchen. After fetching what she needed from the fridge, she turned a burner on low and began to heat her griddle over another. She’d just opened the butter when Zack said quietly from the next room, “Hey, Suzanne—can you, um, come here?”

  He sounded calm yet uncertain, the latter filling her with concern. She laid down her knife and walked to the living room, where he stood before her on his crutches. “What’s up?”

  “Watch,” he said. And with his weight on his good leg, he moved his crutches forward—and then, with effort, pulled his injured leg up under him, foot almost flat on the floor.

  It left her speechless for a moment. He hadn’t been able to do this yesterday. Even this morning, for that matter. But like him, she found herself staying very calm, trying to evaluate what she saw. “Are you putting weight on it?”

  “A little. Off and on. Hurts when I do. But at least I’m, you know, moving it.”

  “Yes,” she said, beginning to nod. “Yes—you’re moving it.” She raised her gaze from his feet to his face, smiling. “You’re moving it.”

  “Slows me down even more,” he said, trailing off.

  “But it’s worth it,” she finished for him.

  “Yeah,” he said. “It is.” Smiling back at her now. Maybe he’d just needed confirmation that he was really doing it, really pulling that right foot forward—another phenomenal advance.

  “Take another step,” she requested.

  He did. And yes, it was a way slower process. But that didn’t matter right now. “That’s amazing, Zack.” She clasped her hands together, trying to contain her joy. “Truly amazing.”

  When he met her gaze, his appeared glassy, emotional. But he covered that up by saying, “One problem, Suzie Q.”

  “What’s that?” she asked, still smiling warmly.

  “I really need to pee and the bathroom’s seeming pretty damn far away right about now.”

  She just laughed. “You don’t have to use your right leg for every step when you need to get somewhere fast. But we’ll add this to our regimen going forward.”

  “As soon as we finish lunch,” he said. “I want to work on it as soon as we finish lunch.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” she told him, then reached out to touch his arm. “I know you have to go to the bathroom, but one more thing.”

  He looked up. “What?”

  “This,” she said, then lifted her hands to his stubbled cheeks and kissed him.

  She didn’t usually initiate—their passion came when they were in bed at night, or in the morning. And if they kissed in between, it was fast, playful. This, though, came from the heart, and as he returned the kiss, it rushed through her like a match hitting a trail of gasoline.

  “Sorry,” she said as it ended. “For impeding your progress to the bathroom.”

  He only laughed, the warmth in his gray eyes filling her up inside as he told her, “Kiss me like that, baby, and you can impede my progress anytime.”

  * * *

  SPLASHING WATER ON his face, Zack glanced in the mirror—and realized he was smiling like a damn fool. He stared at himself—the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, a face weathered by life on the water, the thickly stubbled beginnings of a beard he’d been shaving away once in a while. He was getting older. Forty-three now. And he had a bum leg and no way to make a living. Basically the same problems he’d had for weeks—and yet...he was smiling like an idiot.

  Even if he never worked a fishing boat again, he was making damn solid progress. And hell, maybe it was vain, but if he could learn to balance his right foot, he wouldn’t feel like such a spectacle once he got out and about on his crutches. And spring was coming—those green stems on the dining room table proved it—and it would bring...ways to move forward.

  And...damn if Suzanne’s kiss hadn’t turned him inside out. Part of him didn’t want to admit that was part of the big, stupid grin stretched across his face, but it was. And maybe that was okay. Maybe it wasn’t something to run from. Always had been in the past—but falling down those stairs had changed everything. And if everything was different now...well, maybe the way he looked at women, relationships, wouldn’t be the same, either. He felt better than he’d ever expected to again—and most of it, in one way or another, could be attributed to Suzanne.

  “Zack—you okay in there? Lunch is on the table.”

  “Coming,” he called back to her, then opened the door, ready to keep moving forward.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ON DAHLIA’S THIRTIETH BIRTHDAY, she got a dozen red roses (from Blake), a mini-skirt (from herself—they’d just come back in style after a hiatus through the disco era), and a phone call saying her mother had died.

  She considered not going home for the funeral. She’d stayed only loosely in touch with her mother and sister after leaving—and life had been easier without them. Family wasn’t always what it should be.

  But she’d never met her nephew, Zack, who was seven, and her sister had a new baby, too, named Emily. Both kids by different men, both men long gone—and Dahlia supposed she couldn’t pass judgment on relationships that didn’t last, but she was pretty sure if she’d had any children that the men in her life wouldn’t have abandoned them the way Dottie’s partners had. And there would be things to clean up—things in the house, things in her mother’s life—which she doubted Dottie could handle.

  “It might give you some closure,” Blake suggested, handing her a plane ticket to Saginaw. He’d offered to come along, but the independent part of her demanded she go alone.

  Now she sat at her mother’s kitchen table, thinking through where to begin—should she sort it, leave it all to rot, let Dottie have the house and everything in it? She had no answers—but she had a funeral to plan and two days to do it. Dottie claimed she couldn’t possibly help because the baby was sick, and in fact, she was going to drop Zack off to get him out of her hair.

  “I haven’t even met Zack and now you’re expecting me to babysit him?”

  “It’s not my fault you haven’t been around, and I need the help.”

  “Well, I need some peace and quiet to plan this funeral.”

  “I’ll drop him off at noon. Mom probably has some cold cuts in the fridge for lunch.”

  And so when the back door of the little house opened at twelve on the d
ot and a wary-looking little boy with curly brown hair walked in, Dahlia—who’d expected to feel irritated and awkward—instantly ached to make him feel loved. “I’m your aunt Dahlia—you must be Zack.”

  “Yup.” He carried a backpack as worn as the knees on his blue jeans.

  “I’m sorry we haven’t met before,” she said with a grin, “but I hope we can get to know each other while I’m here.”

  “Okay.” No smile. But no malice, either. This was a little kid who went along wherever life dragged him. But he lacked joy. She saw that in his face, his eyes.

  She made a split-second decision. “Apparently there’s lunch meat in the fridge, but...how would you like to go out for lunch? I saw a McDonald’s on my way here.”

  At this, the boy’s face brightened. “Can I get a Happy Meal?”

  “Absolutely—whatever you want.”

  And so it was that the two most monumental meetings with men in her life that year took place at McDonald’s over French fries and hamburgers.

  Her impression was that Zack hadn’t laughed a lot in his young life, and without quite planning it, she made changing that her mission. Wearing French fries like walrus tusks did the trick, as did pretending she’d seen the Hamburglar lurking behind a trash can. Zack didn’t buy it—stressful upbringings can inject practicality fast, stealing away whimsy and imagination before their time—but her silliness still put the boy at ease.

  Though returning to her mother’s house—a barren sort of place despite being filled with remnants of their lives—forced Dahlia back to practicality, too. She said to her nephew, “I’m supposed to be writing a eulogy for your grandmother. Do you know what that is?”

  “No.” He shook his head beneath that curly mop of hair.

  “It’s something to be read about her at the funeral, about her life.” Problem being, Dahlia didn’t have much nice to say about her mother. Other than that she’d been a good cook and had made Dahlia one, too. So she sat back down at the old Formica kitchen table, grabbed a steno pad she’d been using to make notes, and wrote that down.